


The Lying Detective

by saturn_jupiter



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort, Death, Gen, Meet the Family, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 16:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12561424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturn_jupiter/pseuds/saturn_jupiter
Summary: There are many worlds. In this world, the events of Death Note occur slightly later and the events of Sherlock occur slightly earlier, and the events of both are irrevocably and tragically intertwined.





	1. Prologue 01

**Author's Note:**

> Before I begin, this story has already been posted on fanfiction.net (by me) - this is just for your information. 
> 
> I'm playing my cards very close to my chest for this story so writer's notes will be thin on the ground and explanations even more so. My theory is that the story should speak for itself (this is the plan at least). What I will say is that the story is majorly spoilerific for the entirety of Sherlock and Death Note (mostly the anime with very small bits of inspiration nabbed from the manga).
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**2nd December**

**Two days before the ICPO meeting**

 

The room was silent, made cavernous and dark and foreboding by the high ceiling, hardwood floor and blackout curtains. Although warm with heat effusing throughout the cavern from the wooden floor, many of the few individuals who knew of the room did their very best to avoid it. In the centre of the room lay a silent and lifeless monitor with a meagre selection of allies connected, like itself, to the dormant computer. Suddenly, noise perforated the silence as the door swung open smoothly on its hinges and projected a satisfied hum. Light flooded in from the corridor, bathing the floor and walls and curtains, exposing their dull colours. A shadow cut through the light and moved forward excitedly before the door shut abruptly and the room plunged into darkness once more.

 

Brief, but rhythmic padding echoed violently around the room accompanied by discordant, persistent tapping. The introduction was bought to a swift end as a click sounded, signalling the roar about to permeate the room as the computer sprung into life. Electrical, mechanical whirring filled the almost empty space as the monitor turned on, blindingly bright in its enthusiasm to display the computer's interface. The electronic symphony was interrupted briefly by the ruffling of clothes: the distinctive scratch of denim on denim flitted around the room as the intruder took a seat on the floor directly in front of the monitor's optimistic light.

_Four days_ , pondered the intruder as he tapped his index finger lightly against his bottom lip. Even before calls had started coming in from some of the more astute members of various institutions and governments, it was obvious that something was off. Not so much a thread loose in the world, but a valuable item of clothing torn asunder by threads surgically removed. He paused. Perhaps that was somewhat of an exaggeration, but drama was in his blood; should it come as any surprise that such drama might also suffuse into his thoughts? Regardless, something was afoot and what was afoot seemed to be rather gleefully refusing to comply with current human understanding.

_310 deaths in four days isn't unusual. The world will never be free of war, crime and corruption. No. There's nothing unusual about 310 deaths in four days. But, 310 people_ dying _from heart attacks in four days? That alone_ is _suspicious. No one just drops dead from a heart attack, not instantaneously at least. They might develop arrhythmia, go into cardiogenic shock or experience heart rupture, but to die of the heart attack itself? Unlikely._

_Sudden cardiac arrest would be another story: you have just minutes to live unless urgent medical treatment is immediately available. That's not what's happening. I've received rushed autopsies from three countries and all have confirmed one impossible, but present truth. Victims suffered a heart attack and then immediately died. The valves of the heart appeared to have simply slammed closed, preventing the heart from pumping blood out or in and the victim then died immediately. No amount of CPR or surgical intervention had helped any of the 90 individuals where it had been attempted. 310 people dying of medically inexplicable heart attacks within four days? It could, of course, be a bizarre coincidence, but what do we say about coincidence?_

 

"The universe is rarely so lazy," mused a deep, monotone voice before humming off into further contemplative silence.

_Now, currently, the number of people on the planet suspecting – like myself – that something more nefarious is going on is less than ten. Of those ten individuals, five are in positions that allow them to investigate without provoking attention – I wouldn't have got those autopsy reports if this wasn't the case. Two of those have notified their respective police forces that will no doubt have started investigating on their own. They are likely to notice the pattern soon. The reason they're so likely to notice soon is that a significant proportion of these deaths have taken place within an institution. It didn't particularly matter where. A hospital, a government, a bank, a business: any of these could have been targeted and it would arouse suspicion equally as quickly. No. It didn't matter that so many of these deaths had happened within prisons, although that detail did provide some interesting hints._

_No. There was no doubt. 310 deaths in prisons globally from heart attacks? These weren't deaths; they were too unusual, there was too much of a pattern. No, somehow these were murders,_ he paused, smiling to himself. This was undoubtedly the most significant and wide-reaching case of mass murder the world had ever seen and, in his musings on the case, he had already devised 50 ways in which the murders could have been performed.

_The issue is,_ he considered, running his thumb across the seam of his lips, _That all of these methods require accomplices, networks, quite simply: other individuals in the know. No amount of digging has uncovered even the barest hint that more than one person might be involved and it matters not how well hidden they may be, there are always traces or scents, paths to be followed. No, all of this points to one individual, an unparalleled killer._

 

A sudden crackling and crunching sounded within the room, deafeningly loud against the silence. Fingers audibly fumbled against something plastic and mass-produced before neatly tearing off the seal and letting it glide down to the floor. More noise crackled throughout the room as hands fumbled further, penetrating the package and grabbing a handful of sugar-coated chocolate goodness. Funnelling the sweets into his mouth with a pale, cupped hand, the young man pondered this new case further.

_Serial killers, spree killers and mass murderers don't start out that way. Like any craft, becoming a successful killer takes practice. There is a period of learning, when the technique originally conceived and played out exclusively in the mind is put into practice for the first time and then altered and developed as appropriate. Additionally, most do not start with their plans. The first kill is usually accidental or, sometimes, intentional, but no serial killer starts with 24 victims and a perfect MO. Yet this case, it just defies the norm at every possible turn. They appear to have just started suddenly and out of the blue, but there must have been a build-up. There must have been guinea pigs, experiments. There must be traces somewhere. The question: where to look?_

_Oh,_ he sighed, bringing his train of thoughts to an abrupt and sudden stop. His dark, tired eyes drifted downwards before the truth hit him,  _There are no M &Ms left. Well, that's disappointing._

 

Now free of the chemical, but sugary goodness, his hand glided down towards the mouse on the floor, a single index finger resting on the graceful curve of the mouse. A second finger landed seconds after, shortly before the mouse was propelled forward, guiding its on-screen avatar towards various files and documents. Rapid clicking sounded throughout the room, precise and controlled like military gunfire. The noise ceased as abruptly as it began and the fingers were dragged from the mouse, floating gently upwards until they landed on lips, pulling downwards as the detective pondered the information before him.

_It's already possible to start constructing a profile of this serial killer,_ he began mentally, pulling up files sent by the few individuals who had noticed something significant and world-changing was underway,  _First, they're probably male. It's not impossible they're female and, of course, if the case progresses and there are no immediately suspect characters, it's worth revising this point, but I'd bet serious money on them being male. Second, they're probably young. They've been killing convicted killers, rapists, criminals, many of whom were awaiting the death penalty anyway, but not all convicted criminals are in fact guilty. This is a simple fact and yet the killer does not seem to particularly care, or if they do, this isn't a point they've considered. This all suggests someone young with an underdeveloped understanding of right and wrong, or perhaps someone sheltered in some way – secured in a bubble of similarly-minded individuals._

_Third, it is very likely they live and were raised in a country with capital punishment: statistically, individuals raised in countries operating the death penalty are more likely to view it is as justified, and even right. Whilst it's not entirely implausible that this isn't the case, this killer believes and supports the death penalty, and they more than likely believe that countries lacking it sorely require it. Additionally, if they're not Japanese, then they are Japanese-speaking. This is by far the biggest tell, the greatest certainty. The killer's victims are from various countries around the world but there are two distinctive and limiting factors: language and technology. Of the 310 victims I've uncovered so far, those that were not Japanese were from countries with significant English-language press or English-language news coverage. So clearly, as well as Japanese, the killer is fluent in English._

_Now, the mindset,_ he continued, hesitating for a second as he regretted eating the M&Ms as quickly as he had. They were the crispy ones too. He should have rationed them more efficiently. Making a mental note to do just that next time, his thoughts returned to the case at hand, _The killer is young, believing firmly and rather naïvely in a very black-and-white sense of justice, likely believing that it is not only just to kill criminals, but also that this is necessary. More significantly, this person has killed 310 people in four days. No single individual should be capable of this, not without consequences to their mental health, so somehow, the methods for killing allow significant distance from the victim._

_This isn't someone pulling a trigger or someone telling someone to pull a trigger, but someone far enough removed from the action and its consequences that they feel no guilt at all. Couple this with their belief in their own righteousness and the facts all point towards one simple truth. This killer is the most dangerous individual to have ever lived: a man believing himself to be a god with the ability to kill anyone, anywhere without any accomplices or allies to hold him back or hold him to account._

_He's not a god though. A god wouldn't need to test their method first and test this person did. It was simply a question of where and when to look,_ the detective thought to himself briefly, running through his ideas again. He acknowledged faults in his theories and deductions where he found them and marked those he found to be particularly solid or feasible. After performing this process twice, he nodded once to himself before taking hold of the mouse once more and beginning his search online,  _Assuming the killer is in Japan and Japanese first makes the most sense: the population of Japanese speakers is highly concentrated in one area and otherwise, the whole process will be like looking for a needle in a haystack._

_Now, the killer is using new sources to find his victims – every single victim had been named by a news website or channel,_ he considered, before he limited his search to Japanese new sources,  _Two days are most likely to present the information needed – the first day of the killings and the day preceding it. This is, of course, reliant on the assumption that the culprit is indeed young and righteous. If they are, they would have been recklessly eager to begin and would have committed fully and quickly to the idea._

 

Regardless of how much he had managed to narrow down his search, the information to be sifted through was still significant and, unlikely though it was, a false deduction would mean the whole process was a wild goose chase. However, you do not take the top three spots of any ranking without being excellent at what you do and he had found what he was looking for within 10 minutes. Had anyone been there in the room with him, they would have known the exact moment he had found what he was looking for. His face suddenly brightened with an expression that was halfway between a smile and a smirk. As time progressed, the smile faded and the smirk became more prominent before gradually falling away as he considered what his findings meant.

_Kuro Otoharada, a suspect in Shinjuku who had taken eight people hostage in a daycare centre the day after attacking six people in a shopping district,_ the detective paused from his thoughts long enough to issue a sigh and a heart-felt eye-roll,  _Within an hour of this story hitting the news, he died suddenly. The hostages claimed he had collapsed but these later articles confirm that Kuro Otoharada died of a heart attack. One day before the killings began. Even more interestingly, this story made national news in Japan, but was not reported anywhere else._

 

"How very interesting," mumbled the detective to himself. Although his face was expressionless, the apparently lifeless eyes were positive glistening and would likely continue to do so whether the monitor was on or off.

_Somewhere out there, probably in Japan, is a deluded young man with a very naive sense of justice and a frankly unnerving weapon who has already killed 311 people. Questions remain of course, chief among them being: How? How are these murders taking place? How is this man killing people this quickly when the victims are thousands of miles apart? How?_

 

"Watari," began L, "Interpol will be having a meeting very soon. You'll need to make your way over to Lyon."

 

"I see," replied the soft, familiar voice, "I'll begin making preparations right away."

 

"Oh," L declared, knowing all too well that Watari would cut off the connection and begin immediately, "And Watari?"

 

"Yes?" smiled Watari in response, already predicting – entirely accurately – the next words he was going to hear.

 

"Could you buy me some macaroons while you're there?" demanded L politely with an answering, though unseen, smile, "You know the ones. A tray or two if you could."

 

"Of course," Watari replied before pausing for an uncharacteristically long time, continuing with a delicate, careful tone, "MH called."

 

"He did," said L, unsure whether he was asking or stating. L's pause was not uncharacteristically long, but it was indeed long enough to betray the volume of his feelings to Watari. L could almost hear Watari's silent nod over the connection before it cut out. Gracefully rising to his feet, L headed towards the door. There was little doubt in his mind.

_I need more M &Ms._

 


	2. Prologue 02

**9 th August**

**Four months after the events at Sherrinford**

 

“Good girl, Rosie!” he exclaimed, squeezing what he felt to be frankly absurd levels of delight into his voice as he clasped his hands together and contorted his face into an expression of wonder. He had read that young children, especially before true recognition sets in, like that sort of thing. Going by Rosie’s apparent squeal of delight, there was some degree of truth to that. As wide eyes turned to him and her face crumpled and crinkled into an expression of simple joy, he felt his heart melt and knew that the expression on his face had melted into one of warm affection. There was something about her uncomplicated joy that drew genuine happiness from him.

 

She was growing normally, no faster than any other child, and Sherlock would have conceded there being something to the ‘they grow up so fast’ adage if it wasn’t his own experience that time moved exactly as it should rather in spite of human experience. She was growing at precisely the same approximate speed as others of her age. Although, she was getting very good at matching colours and her fine motor skills were developing ever so slightly faster than the average child, but that was probably connected to the toy that had arrived last week.

 

Much to Sherlock’s amusement, because John Watson probably had one of the most expressive faces to have ever graced the United Kingdom’s soil, John had been as horrified by the toy’s expense as he had been genuinely moved by the depth and volume of feeling that it represented. Sherlock had received a hug and a punch on the shoulder for purchasing Rosie’s latest educational toy. A few months ago, he might have told himself that the toy was unimportant and evidenced nothing, but – although he would only ever express it out loud under duress – he had learned to stop lying to himself about his feelings.

 

Months ago, he would have dismissed the purchase of a custom-made, periodic table-based shape sorting box as a simple gift, just something purchased on a whim. Now he could admit, at least within the sanctity of his own mind, that he loved having Rosie at Baker Street and that the toy was part of a steadily growing collection purchased especially so he could watch the pleasure on her still-tiny face. He could admit that he had stayed awake later than usual just to plan and design the shape sorting box and that he had stolen Mycroft’s phone to ring abroad to find a supplier that could handcraft and deliver it as quickly as possible. Of course, all of this he admitted only within the confines of his own mind.

 

As he watched Rosie pick up the Al block and stare at the box thoughtfully, a shrill alarm screeched throughout the living room. Heaving himself off the floor unenthusiastically, Sherlock stomped over to his chair. Unsurprisingly, his phone was ringing, vibrating and quivering and screaming up at him from the chair’s arm. When the screen illuminated, flashing intermittently in concert with the vibrations, Sherlock was able to discern the name onscreen. A powerful groan escaped him as he saw his brother’s name on the screen. Distantly, as if having also seen the phone screen, Rosie whined despondently and threw the aluminium block towards the door. Sherlock couldn’t agree with her sentiment more as he picked up the phone.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

He paused. Everything he had planned on expressing in that moment, mostly about his complete lack of interest in listening to his brother’s moaning about some stupid case involving a cabinet minister’s secret lover, evaporated instantly and his brain went into overdrive. He had heard Mycroft use tones like this on very few occasions and had, correctly, come to associate them with bad news. It wasn’t the panicked, distressed undercurrent present whenever Euros was somehow involved, or the pained, sympathetic one detectable when discussing something amiss with John or Mrs Hudson or Greg or Molly. This was his upset tone, mild though it was. Sherlock imagined that this was how he would sound if Sherlock’s ability to escape death suddenly ran out.

 

“Mycroft?”

 

Just as Sherlock had deciphered his brother’s tone and worriedly considered its potential significance, Mycroft too heard his brother’s nervous cry. Sherlock had been degrees more free with his feelings since the events of Sherrinford, but even if he hadn’t been, his apprehension would likely have been equally as evident. What little satisfaction Mycroft felt at the reassurance he and his brother still had a strong bond was crushed by knowledge; tragic knowledge that he had to impart to his dear brother. His own feelings would be exposed within the next few minutes and he could only hope that Sherlock would be sympathetic, rather than cruel. After all, he had started to be freer with his feelings, but the habit of a lifetime cannot be shaken off overnight and occasionally, ignorant unkindness seeped out.

 

“It’s Julia Sato.”

 

“She’s dead?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Lawliet?”

 

“Alive.”

 

Sherlock felt relief surge through him before his insides ran cold. Why was Mycroft so audibly upset then? If Lawliet was alive, then why on earth would Mycroft be so upset? He knew Mycroft had grown emotionally attached to Julia and Lawliet – which Sherlock would have found amusing given his brother’s habit of declaring that ‘caring isn’t an advantage’ if he didn’t understand precisely why – but why would her death upset him so much? He mulled it over a few seconds before it all seemed to click into place.

 

“Trauma?”

 

Mycroft smiled weakly, grateful he didn’t need to voice what they both knew to be the truth. For the truth was that Mycroft saw so much of Sherlock in Lawliet. He saw an opportunity to protect that which he had previously failed to. He saw a young Sherlock, undamaged by the world, still open and capable of feeling so much. And Sherlock had correctly understood Mycroft’s grief and, indeed, the likely cause of it. Mycroft had seen in Lawliet a young Sherlock that he had not failed so much, in so many ways. Now, Mycroft could see the first mark of his failure and that hurt him deeply, far more deeply than he felt he should allow.

 

“It is… significant.”

 

“Is he with you now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can I speak to him?”

 

“He’s asleep.”

 

“Asleep?”

 

“Sedated.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Sherlock nodded, “And you’re bringing him here?”

 

“I thought it best. Mummy is… distressed, and I am not an appropriate candidate.”

 

“And I did donate half of his genes.”

 

“I am aware, thank you for that.”

 

Sherlock smirked, “Are you near?”

 

“Five minutes away.”

 

Sherlock’s pause was long enough to indicate confirmation before he hung up and threw his phone back onto the chair. In long, graceful, sweeping strides, he moved back over to Rosie. He flew her up into the air and cradled her into his chest with one arm as he wrestled the bee-themed baby swing out of the corner where he had earlier ruthlessly shoved it with the other. Once freed, he placed it on the ground and cuddled Rosie into the soft, yellow plush of the seat, securing her in with the straps and turning on the swing. He pirouetted on the spot neatly and precisely and bowed to collect the various elements that were lying around the floor having not made it into the table with the other elements.

 

Just as he was moving the shape sorting box away, which in actuality meant forcing it into the corner he had just retrieved the swing from, the door downstairs clicked open. Soft orders could be heard spoken in careful, shushed whispers as footsteps sounded on the steps of the flat. The door was already open and Mycroft entered first, gesturing instructions to the men that followed behind him. Sherlock barely noticed the two men enter carrying their cargo gently on a stretcher, distracted as he was by the contours of his brother’s face. Sherlock had always known his brother cared for him, but he often forgot just how deeply.

 

He was broken from his musings by the two men leaving and Rosie’s screech for attention. He reached Rosie in two strides, running a hand gently over her head before swapping the swing to a different setting and returning his attention to the matter at hand. He looked up at Mycroft’s face, having examined his brother’s affected posture, observing the way his hand was gripping his umbrella handle ever so slightly too tightly. Silently, Sherlock lent over to his right and pulled a chair out from underneath the desk, carrying it one step forward and placing it just a metre away from Mycroft’s left hand.

 

“Thank you,” smiled his brother weakly and Sherlock recognised it for what it was: forced pleasantness masking heartache. Sherlock was all too familiar with the feeling and turned his attention to the young child now curled up on his sofa.

 

“When did that start?” queried Sherlock, not having to gesturing in any way for it to be clear he was referring to the boy’s peculiar sleeping position. Sherlock had of course seen him in a similar position before, but only due to lack of space and never whilst asleep.

 

“After the incident,” sighed Mycroft, only just managing to resist the urge to massage his forehead, “Immediately after, according to the reports.”

 

“What happened, Mycroft?”

 

In the moment it had taken Mycroft’s mouth to open, more footsteps could be heard on the stairs. These feet were panicked, rushed, leaping off each step and jumping over one each time. John was running up the stairs. He had likely seen the black van parked outside, clocked Mycroft’s very conspicuous personnel and assumed something had gone horribly wrong. Guilt thrummed through Sherlock powerfully as his very best and closest friend flew into the room, full of adrenaline and prepared for anything and everything, except perhaps the sight of a young boy curled up on the sofa.

 

“His name is Lawliet,” began Sherlock, observing questions flickering in John’s eyes, “He’s my… uh… son.”

 

If Sherlock had forgotten how fast John’s head could snap from one position to another, he was instantly reminded upon ending his sentence. John’s expression was a multitudinous and shifting tumultuous mass of emotions and Sherlock knew he needed to nip 90% of John’s thoughts in the bud immediately before he started making too many false, idiot conclusions. Sherlock could already see John’s eyes snapping to Lawliet’s face, before becoming distant, as if he was trying to search his memory for faces to match the features to.

 

“It was Mummy’s idea,” stated Mycroft as dispassionately as he could in his current, affected state, interrupting before Sherlock could construct the least offensive way of telling John not to hurt his idiot mind thinking too hard, “Mummy forced us both to donate sperm. This boy, Lawliet, is thankfully the only consequence of Mummy’s whim.”

 

“Thank god,” smirked Sherlock, his comment made playful only by the light dancing in his eyes, “The thought of more Mycrofts running around is enough to turn my stomach.”

 

“Thank you, brother dear,” retorted Mycroft with words dripping thickly with sarcasm, “For your very kind words.”

 

The two turned from their brief exchange to observe John. If John were a record, which he of course wasn’t, then he would be one stuck, caught looping a note shrilly. If John were a computer, none of the programs would be responding or functioning in any significant way. He looked very much like a man whose world had been turned upside down. The two brothers glanced at each other, sharing an expression confirming their mutual belief that they may have irrevocably broken John Watson. A quick glance back to John’s face, however, assuaged their concerns as his face began to morph into fond exasperation – a face Sherlock had been gratefully receiving more of in recent months.

 

“Anything else I should know?” he snapped, likely sharper than he’d intended, “I don’t suppose _he_ has a secret, psychotic sibling hidden away on an island somewhere too, does he?”

 

Sherlock frowned ever so slightly. John had been through so much and he had seemed to be making progress. It made Sherlock happier than he could express in words to see his dearest friend recovering from the various ordeals he had faced together with Sherlock over the past few years. It was pleasant to watch John settle back into his skin. However, under moments of stress like this, Sherlock could see the fracture lines creaking and straining. The fond exasperation was being pulled taut at the edges, stretched tightly into deeper, hidden depths. Betrayal and grief flitted about the edges, with just a hint of anger present as he clenched his fists tightly. Taking all of this in, it occurred to Sherlock that perhaps he should have mentioned Lawliet at some earlier point.

 

“Not that we’re aware of,” smiled Sherlock, before his face softened and he added demurely, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 

John fired his eyes to Sherlock’s, staring into their depths for a moment before he nodded sharply and neatly, every bit the military doctor. John’s body language began to soften gradually in small degrees as he absorbed and considered Sherlock’s apology. It was possible to distinguish the exact moment when John’s internal battle with his emotions had ended: ceasefire agreed, John’s eyes shifted from Sherlock’s. They glided from Sherlock to Rosie, brightening in delight as he watched her bat the plush bees about in wonderment, before they landed on the sofa and, more specifically the frame of the young boy that was curled upon it.

 

Sherlock watched, keenly curious as John’s eyes raked over the boy’s frame. This was Doctor John Watson observing an individual, assessing them and deciding whether they were to be a patient or not. Sherlock had, of course, observed John examining bodies before, and occasionally distressed clients, bystanders and witnesses too, but he found it fascinating nonetheless. What Sherlock found particularly interesting was the way in which John was clearly holding himself back, fighting against his internal desire to approach Lawliet and look for other signs that might indicate what had happened.

 

Sherlock had no doubt that John had observed, or at least seen, everything that he had. He had no doubt observed the ragged nails, sooty but still bitten down to the nail and, even, slightly into the bed. He had no doubt observed the blisters and burns, incisions and dried blood on the hands and wrists. He had no doubt also observed the distinctive bags under the eyelids, made all the more stark by the boy’s ghostly-white pallor and thick black locks. John had likely already come to the conclusion that the boy had been involved in a fire, had somehow received injuries to his hands and wrists, and had been sedated.

 

“What happened to him?”


	3. Chapter 01

 

**4 th December**

**Five hours before the ICPO meeting**

There was a strange, oppressive atmosphere in the building; there had been for several days. There were rushed whispers in corridors that fell silent the instant footsteps could be heard, muffled though they were by the industrial blue carpet. Everyone’s badges were hidden away behind ties and jackets – visible enough to be seen, but not enough to be read or examined in great detail. People seemed to be walking more hurriedly despite the unsettled calm otherwise blanketing the institution.

 

It seemed as though the disquieted secrecy had been slipping into all departments. She had only been in her office for five minutes when the email came around to go to a meeting in a room on the top floor on the other side of the building in the English booth. Given the other addresses included in the email, it was not going to be an especially long meeting, or at least, it was going to be a very uncomfortable meeting if it was going to be on the longer side.

 

With all the secrecy and confidential documents that had been passing through the department over the past few days, this sudden meeting was likely connected to this “Kira” problem. From the few documents she had seen herself, it sounded as though there might be some sort of serial killer on the loose globally, but the documents had clearly been rushed and were painfully vague. She had spent the past two days nursing a headache from the poor source texts she had been receiving and the uncomfortably tight deadlines she had been given in which to make sense of them and translate them.

 

The room was silent and dark, she observed as she peered through the window of the Arabic booth. It had not yet been set up, but the meeting was not for another few hours yet, and if it was as confidential as she suspected it might be, it would likely only be prepared minutes before the start. She carried on walking towards the English booth, following the sloping curve of the wall. As she came up on the booth, she waved weakly at her colleagues, approaching with a similarly weak smile. Guillermo nodded slightly, slouching against the wall with his hands punched into his pockets. Éline waved vibrantly, cheeks already punctuated red as they so often were.

 

“Where’s Zahra?” she asked in a hushed whisper.

 

“In the booth,” replied Éline, gesturing towards the English booth’s closed door, “It’s been closed since we arrived.”

 

“Have you knocked?” she queried, thinking to herself that her question was stupid even as it escaped her mouth.

 

Neither Éline nor Guillermo had time to nod or respond in any way before the door opened inwards suddenly. Unusually, the booth was lit brightly and its light bathed sections of the darkened room below in warm yellow. Zahra held the door open and gestured them all inside. It would have been a bit cramped with the four of them, particularly for a meeting, but with a fifth especially ominous-looking figure taking up one seat and half of the desk, it was even more cramped than she had anticipated upon receiving the email.

 

“There’s not a lot of room and the meeting will only be short,” began Zahra, sliding the door closed behind them, “So we’ll just stand for now.”

 

“Zahra, what is going on?” whispered Guillermo before anyone could speak, “Who is this? What is with all this hiding?”

 

“My apologies for the secrecy, but I assure you it is quite necessary.”

 

She was reassured to find Guillermo and Éline looking similarly perturbed, scanning the room as a voice, clearly not belonging to the figure sporting an unusual hat, sounded around the small booth. The ominous figure, black balaclava twisting round his mouth as a smile seem to form underneath, gestured slowly and elegantly to an open laptop situated on the desk between the monitors and interpreting equipment. The laptop – small, lightweight and new – was showing a blank screen, blank but for a small green spot flashing in the upper left-hand corner. She could not hide the expression of confusion from her face as she turned back to look at Zahra.

 

“I take it you’ve all heard of L?”

 

And suddenly it all clicked into place. Everyone had heard of L and Watari. It was impossible to work in international law enforcement and not be familiar with the names. They were whispered legend-rumours and a huge source of speculation at the ICPO headquarters in Lyon. The pair even had a rule in the style guide for the few lucky enough to be sent a document mentioning their names: anyone translating a text mentioning them was to use exclusively gender-neutral terms – a task rather less challenging for English than for the ICPO’s other official languages. She had never once imagined she would ever encounter them beyond a passage in a text somewhere. Beyond intense surprise, she was not sure how else to feel and looked to Zahra for more information.

 

“L has a special arrangement with the language services department,” explained Zahra, gesturing deferentially to the laptop, “I’ll let L fill you in.”

 

“Thank you, Zahra,” began L, “When I am to take part in a meeting, I provide the heads of booths for that meeting with phones.”

 

As if on cue, the black-cladded figure in the corner picked up a tray from the desk and lay it on his lap. Upon the thin metal tray were four mobile phones. They were distinctive only because of their age. All of those in the room were old enough to recognise the indomitable Nokia 3310 when they saw it. As L began speaking once more, the figure – presumably Watari – lifted the tray up, bouncing it once gently to indicate they were to each take one phone, before placing the empty tray back on the desk once more.

 

“I’ll ring each of these phones shortly before I’m to speak and will only disconnect once I’m sure that I will not be speaking again. Once the meeting is over, you’re to leave the phones in the booth. Watari will collect them. Any questions?”

 

“Why?” asked Guillermo, turning the phone around in his hand and examining it critically, “We can understand you fine. Why all this trouble?”

 

“I use a voice modulator,” explained L with a soft sigh, as though having heard the question a million times before, “And I understand it can make interpretation more challenging than it already is.”

 

She hummed in surprise, the noise catching in her throat and sounding degrees more surprise than she actually felt. She glanced to her left and found Éline and Guillermo both looking equally as surprised. It was exceptionally unusual for any individual to ever give even a passing thought to the interpreters. Particularly in meetings when the interpreters were hidden away in a booth, nothing more than a voice over a headset; no one ever spared them much of a thought. To hear that someone had not only considered them, but also found a system to in fact facilitate their work beyond providing documents in advance, was quite surprising.

 

“Why English?” she asked, swallowing on her tongue in her nervousness, “Why does the English booth need a phone?”

 

“Hmmm,” L mused, sounding thoughtful but for a slight change in sound quality, as though he was covering his mouth, “Well, depending on the meeting, I might need to speak one of the other official languages.”

 

“I see,” nodded Éline, “This is why you don’t need to hear our interpreting.”

 

“Correct.”

 

The room fell silent for a short while, punctuated by muffled rustling from the laptop. Zahra turned to her fellow interpreters and began explaining how they would have to lay out the situation in full to both internal and external boothmates. She also began explaining how they were to behave, likely relaying information she had received in private before inviting the other interpreters inside. They were to keep the mobile phones with them until the meeting and nobody else in the booth was to be permitted access to the phone whilst the call was in progress. Even to interpreter-translators familiar with confidential documents and generally secretive international organisations, all of this felt more than a little cloak and dagger.

 

The meeting came to a conclusion a little over two minutes later. Zahra opened the door and all four interpreters headed out of the room, with Zahra leaning back in briefly to confirm that Watari could make his own way out. Out of habit and respect, the group remain silent as they walked down the corridor. With the door to the booth having been left open, the four could make out chuckled Japanese as they opened the door to exit the long, curling corridor. Once in the foyer outside, it did not take long before they all mutually agreed that the meeting that afternoon was going to be quite unlike the usual meetings.

 

***

**Two hours into the ICPO meeting**

 

The meeting had been underway for over two hours already and it was looking more than likely that it would run overtime once more. This of course was not all that surprising as it occurred on a fairly regular basis. There was an unusual electricity in the air though, palpable tension convecting around the room and – even more unusually – seeping into the interpreting booths above. She could feel a rare tension in her own booth and, as she glanced to her right, she could see stress on her colleagues’ faces, though their voices were likely steady and sure.

 

Clearly, this case had struck a chord, a discordant, out-of-tune string screeching against the senses. Even before the debate, when the various reports were being summarised, there was distinctive fidgeting in the room below. There was tutting and sighing, shaking heads and arms flung into the air. The microphones were sensitive enough and picked up the low groans and taps and ruffling suit jackets. It was nigh on impossible to ignore the energy of the room, when it was both visible and audible. When a room was as full of tension as this, a mistranslated word or misinterpreted phrase could be costly, so the pressure was on.

 

She had agreed in advance with her boothmate to take Arabic and French – she was more than happy to surrender all of the Spanish interpretation to her colleague: the Spanish speakers were particularly energetic today and she had spent the whole morning translating French. Not having Spanish to worry about, she could dedicate a quarter of her attention to the black Nokia 3310 on the desk next to her notepad. It was on vibrate, but she was hoping to catch it on the first ring, concerned that the microphone might pick it up if either she or her colleague were interpreting.

 

“France.”

 

Her head snapped away from the phone to the monitor on her left. On automatic, she turned up the volume, hugging the left headphone closer to her ear with her left hand before letting her right index finger hover over the currently white button. She waited patiently, counting the seconds pass by as one of the French delegates shuffled forward in his seat and clicked the microphone on, a bright vibrant red encircling the black to indicate he was live. As soon as the first word left his mouth, her finger punched the button which properly turned a similarly bright and distinctive red.

 

_“Attendez,”_

“Wait,”

 

He was indignant – his tone dismissive, but not so much as to be rude. He sounded frustrated and possibly felt as though his time was being wasted. She caught a glimpse of the placard bearing his name and smiled to herself. She remembered him from a meeting just last week on cybercrime and the increase in vigilantism. No wonder he was so frustrated – he had been calling for more funding and was likely concerned that this might suck up the cash he wanted for his investigations.

 

_“on ne sait même pas s’il s’agit bien de meurtres.”_

“we don’t even know if these are in fact murders.”

 

She punched the button, watching it turn white. She had finished just a second after he had. Training had always placed a healthy emphasis on ending quickly. Either you finish a second after the speaker because the language or the speed or the complexity leave you little choice, or you finish at the same time because the rest is easy to anticipate, or the language allows for a closer _d_ _écalage_ – the distance between the original speaker and the interpreter. In a meeting this tense, anticipation was best avoided, but that meant ending as quickly as possible so as not to interrupt the flow of the meeting.

 

“Lead investigator.”

 

“Then how did all these people have heart attacks at the exact same time?! That’s not coincidence, it’s murder!”

 

“France.”

 

_“Vous envisagez sérieusement,”_

                                                “Are you seriously suggesting”

 _“que quelqu’un a pu tous les tu_ _é_ _presque même temps_

                                                                                              “that someone managed to kill them all at the same time”

_“sur un paramètre si large ?”_

“in this many countries?”

 

“India.”

 

“We’re treating this as an elaborate murder plot that’s being carried out by large organisation.”

 

“Russia.”

 

“If it is a large organisation, I’m sure I’m not alone in suspecting the FBI or CIA.”

 

“I dare you to say that again!”

 

“America!” shouted the Chair, “One more outburst like that and you’re out. Right, Austria.”

 

“Now, now! This is not the time to be joking around. We need to confirm that these are indeed homicides and not coincidences.”

 

“France.”

_“Le fait est que tous les examens médico-légaux amènent à la même conclusion :”_

“All the autopsies have come to the same conclusion:”

_“crise cardiaque sans cause apparente.”_

                                                                                                                                                        “heart attack without obvious cause.”

 

“South Africa.”

 

“Investigating a series of heart attacks is pointless! I don’t see what else we can learn.”

 

“Sweden.”

 

“Absolutely! If these people had been shot or stabbed, at least we’d have something to go on.”

 

“Lead investigator.”

 

“If that’s the case, it looks like we’ll have no choice but to bring in L.”

 

The room fell silent for a few short seconds. Her boothmate turned to her, his face expressing surprise despite her having explained earlier that L would be joining the meeting at a later stage. Perhaps he had imagined she was lying to him, she mused briefly, before turning to her right and glancing at her fellow interpreters who had all started staring at their phones. The conference room below erupted into noise – the Chair throwing his head into his hands in exasperation – as the Nokia 3310 on her desk buzzed loudly, rattling on the desk in a tight circle. Her boothmate stared at the phone, nodding as he remembered her instructions and watching as she picked up and answered the phone.

 

“Hello,” began the soft voice on the other end, “Watari is about to enter the room. Although the microphones are powerful, he’s unlikely to be picked up, but you will be able to hear him over this line. I would appreciate it if you could interpret and respeak his words as you hear them. Additionally, I’ve discovered that at least five of the delegates are hard of hearing. English booth, I ask that you respeak for me – I wouldn’t want delegates to miss out on what I’m saying purely because of the voice modulator. Best of luck, everyone.”

 

Respeaking? It occurred to her suddenly the outsiders simply do not know these terms. Every industry and career has its gripes and terms and phrases and L seem to know them all. It went beyond that though. People encountering the sector, people who did not live it, would hear odd terms and phrases. They would confuse an interpreter with a translator and fail to understand relay or _d_ _écalage._ There were even interpreters who might be unfamiliar with the term respeaking and translators unfamiliar with flow. Was it possible that L had worked in the industry? Or had he maybe just researched intently? The latter would not be too unlikely – the man was a world-renowned detective.

 

She was broken abruptly from her mental musings as she glimpsed a familiar black-cladded figure slipping silently into the room, which was roaring so loudly with noise that no one had yet seen him over the Chair’s attempts to bring the session to order. Her boothmate had caught onto the drama and looked distinctly perturbed, and just a little bit concerned, by the new arrival. It seemed clear that, had Watari been carrying a bag rather than a single laptop, her boothmate would have been seconds away from ducking under the desk. If she had not already met the man, she believed she would likely be in the process of calling for security. As it was, she did know what was going on and was not especially concerned.

 

Calmly, she pulled the left headphone off her ear and hovered her finger over the microphone’s button. Clutching the phone to her right ear, she explained all too briefly to her boothmate that she was going to be respeaking for the foreseeable future. She waited to hear Watari’s voice on the line, briefly thinking to herself that he must be quite unpleasantly warm wrapped up in all those layers regardless of whether they were protecting his identity or not. He was still walking into the room as his voice boomed over the mobile’s speaker.

 

“L is already on the move.” she spoke, a split second after punching the button and finishing just one second after Watari.

 

Watari came to a stop just in front of the Chair, where the microphone was most likely to pick him up. It was a clever move. The room’s attention had been snapped away by the interpretations in the headsets and drawn back to the front of the room by the rather imposing figure that Watari presented, clad entirely in black and obscuring his face. It was clear that most of the people in the room had recognised him, or, at the very least, received a hurried explanation rapidly. It was, at the very least, a particularly interesting method for bringing the session to order. She considered that the Chair might take some notes for future meetings.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began respeaking, “L has already begun their investigations.”

 

As the room erupted into noise once more, she held her breath. It was all too easy to forget that the microphone was still live and everything was being transmitted directly and clearly into the headset of every delegate tuned into the English channel. She had to hold her breath to prevent the deep sigh of exasperation she wanted to heave out. This was the ICPO, you would think the delegates would have it in them to behave better than a class of rowdy secondary school children. It was little wonder L refused to interact directly with them.

 

“Please be silent,” she repeated almost simultaneously, “L would now like to address the delegates.”

 

“Greetings to all of you at the ICPO, I am L.”

 

***

**An hour after the ICPO meeting**

 

_Buzz._

 

She paused, turning back towards the room.

 

_Buzz-buzz._

The meeting was over. Watari had left the meeting half an hour earlier. The room was virtually empty. So why was the phone ringing?

 

_Buzz-buzz._

More importantly perhaps: why was she answering it? All she wanted to do was go home and sleep.

 

_Buzz-bu-_

“Hello?” she asked, her voice dragging out the word nervously and entirely without her consent.

 

“Ah, good!” began L, “I caught you before you left.”

 

“Uhm,” she hummed, mental processes frozen in place but still functioning just enough to question why on Earth he might be interested in talking to her, “Zahra – the head of the Arabic booth – has already gone, if you were trying to catch her.”

 

“No,” smiled L, voice amused, “I meant what I said. I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

 

“Why’d you wanna talk to me?” she fired rather more aggressively than she intended; fatigue had battered through the last dregs of her well-cultivated manners, “Sorry. That was rude.”

 

“I won’t take much of your time. I was just wondering if you could tell me your name.”

 

“Uhm, Julie.”

 

“Thank you for your work today, Julie.”

 

“Uh, thanks.”

 

“Could you pass the phone to Watari, please?”

 

Julie leapt out of her skin as she looked up and saw Watari’s menacing reflection in the glass of the interpreting booth. Hand catapulting its way to her chest, she gasped for breath, having been disproportionately surprised by Watari’s arrival. Glad to be able to blame her inattention on fatigue, she hesitantly looked at the phone before placing it delicately into the leather-clad hand presented to her. Julie saw the balaclava twisting around Watari’s mouth, into what she presumed – not entirely correctly – to be a smile. Once the phone was passed over, she began to make her way out of the door in a slightly dazed state. Softly spoken Japanese followed her as she walked down the corridor to leave. Even if she had spoken Japanese, she would not have been able to decipher anything of meaning from the conversation.

 

“ _Her name was Julie._ ”

 

“ _Yes. Unless of course she was lying which seems unlikely._ ”

 

“ _British, too._ ”

 

“ _Do you have the macaroons?_ ”

 

“ _Of course._ ”

 

“ _Then I’ll see you soon._ ”

 

A wistful sigh punctuated the empty space.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there are a couple of interesting things about this chapter that I'd like to mention.
> 
> The first is that I trained as a conference interpreter so I've tried to convey this as accurately as possible based on my (admittedly still quite limited) experience. It was particular fun trying to portray simultaneous interpretation in writing, I hope that comes across well.
> 
> The second is that the ICPO has four official languages (English, French, Spanish and Arabic). I did try to do research to find out whether the ICPO has staff interpreters (permanent members of staff that interpret one spoken language into another), but could not find anything conclusive. I'm imagining that they operate like the EU: with speakers permitted to speak in any official language and both staff and freelance interpreters in booths to translate their speech.
> 
> The third and final point is that I took the French from the French dub of Death Note, so if those lines differ slightly from the English dub/sub then that is why.


	4. Chapter 02

 

**12 th August**

**Two and a half days after L’s arrival**

“Shush, shush,” whispered a familiar voice, “I’ve got you.”

 

A whine tore through the deadened silence of the flat, followed by frantic, flustered gasps for breath. More soft assurances sifted sweetly from underneath the door, barely audible over the panted, hurried gasps and moans and groans and whines. These were the sounds of grief and they were sounds with which John was all too well acquainted. He had heard them on various occasions and many times over the sound of his own pounding heart or listless pacing. These noises, however, plucked particularly viciously at his heartstrings. Perhaps it was because he was a father now.

 

He heaved a sigh, feeling as though it were being forcibly dragged out of him with a blunt fishing hook. Rubbing his face sluggishly, John trudged silently towards the kitchen. On automatic, he picked up the kettle before pausing and debating whether it would be too loud – whether the sound of it boiling would sink under the door and into the room nearby, whether the sound would even be heard over the fading remnants of the panic attack and Sherlock’s soothing, warm tone.

 

John was not entirely certain how he felt about any of this. He could also no longer reliably judge how he would have reacted to his current situation in times gone by. He imagined that perhaps the John of before-Sherlock-fell might have been deeply surprised that his friend was capable of such considered caring support. Or maybe this same John would have been deeply moved that he had glimpsed the behaviour, been shown the soft heart and squishy centre of an apparently cold machine? What would the John of just-after-the-return have thought and felt? The John that had forgiven the fall? The John just after Mary’s death? He could not be sure, but he considered that unlocking that knowledge might go some way to explaining the large, shifting mass of feelings twisting inside his chest.

 

Having filled the kettle whilst his musings distracted him from remembering his concern of making too much noise, John placed the kettle on its stand. He collected two familiar, well-loved mugs from the cabinet in front of him, dropping teabags in them and adding the required sugar levels to each mug. He was trapped deep in his thoughts, trying so desperately to untangle the knotted chain of sentiments bubbling and bouncing of the inside of his ribcage that he utterly failed to hear the soft padding of bare feet trickle into the kitchen from the room.

 

“Tea at this hour, John?” joked a weak, tired and drained voice from the other side of the island, “What would Mrs Hudson say?”

 

Turning around and probably failing to hide the fact that Sherlock had caught him off-guard, John replied, “She’d probably tell you to sit down before you fall down. Have you slept at all, Sherlock?”

 

The slight upturn of Sherlock’s lips was all the answer he needed. Living with Sherlock and having known the man for as long as he had, he knew when the detective was beginning to push his limits. The man could go days without sleeping and longer on minimal, but regular sleep when working on a case, when there was a victim to be saved or a criminal to be caught. Now though? This was not a conventional case. This was not even similar to curing John psychosomatic limp. This was emotionally and physically taxing and with everything else that has happened over the past few years, it was hardly surprising that this was shoving powerfully at the detective’s well-tested limits.

 

“Somewhat,” he replied meekly, “Have you?”

 

“More than you,” John answered, supposing that he was lucky Rosie had not been jolting awake – as he had – to a child’s panicked cry.

 

An awkward silence followed so John turned around, putting the kettle on to boil and faffing around with whatever was to hand to distract him from the fact that there was even an awkward silence in the first place. They had been gradually fading away – the awkward silences – but occasionally, one would descend. It smothered the room in thick black slick, suffocating both of them with its coagulated thickness. The silence spoke of feelings and thoughts that would be expressed freely were it not for the seemingly unending wealth of hurt that continued to bubble beneath both of their skins.

 

It dragged on sluggishly and gratingly for literal minutes as the kettle boiled away. It stretched further as John poured the boiling water into the mugs, stirring clockwise immediately as the cascading water smashed into the teabags. The clinking and clanking of the teaspoon as it glanced the sides of the mugs penetrated the black mass that was the awkward silence between them, seeming to highlight it further rather than shatter it. Not even the sickly, clinical light of the fridge as he opened it to retrieve the milk did anything to alleviate or reduce the shifting, curdling coagulation rippling between them.

 

As he poured in the milk, the early hour making his performance sloppy, he wondered whether Sherlock was picking up on the silence. Since the nightmare of Sherrinford had ended, John had seen Sherlock slowly transforming, revealing the vulnerable softness he had always known existed. Sherlock the psychopath, Sherlock the high-functioning sociopath, the Sherlock that was in truth a memory of his sister, was slowly giving way to Sherlock the more obviously caring human. He was still the crazy detective with truly bizarre habits and careless disregard for various social norms, but the heart which John had occasionally glimpsed was visible more often with each day that passed.

 

John turned around, sliding Sherlock’s mug across the table into his waiting hands as he made his way over to the fridge to return the milk. Once more, the kitchen was bathed in clinical, yellow light before being plunged back into the minimal light produced by the streetlamps outside. After picking up his own, slightly larger mug of tea, he placed it on the table before plonking himself into the chair with a sudden thump. Unlike Sherlock, John did not nurse the mug between his hands, instead mindlessly and gently caressing the mug with his thumb as his fingers loosely gripped the handle. The two men sat for a short while longer in silence, slowly slurping down tea before the tension was broken.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, John,” murmured Sherlock barely above a whisper, “I’m not the right person for this.”

 

“Then who is?” asked John, already preparing soft rants in his head for the various answers he expected Sherlock might opt to use.

 

“His mother, ideally.”

 

Well, John bizarrely had not been expecting that one. Sherlock straightened suddenly, realising quickly the error he had made. His face had shifted into one of regret and hurt and apology. In all honesty Sherlock had realised the offence, the hurt, the grief-fuelled burns his comment might cause faster than John had considered that the comment might offend him. John, of course, could not deny the fiery twist in his chest, but he waved his hand dismissively as Sherlock’s mouth parted – likely about to plead forgiveness or dig himself further into the hole he had suddenly and unexpectedly dug for himself. Despite the dismissal, Sherlock’s face retained the tiniest traces of hurt and regret as he spoke.

 

“I was never supposed to have him – it was never part of the plan,” ranted Sherlock quietly, “I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Nobody does,” replied John calmly in between sips of tea, “That’s parenthood, you’re not alone, Sherlock. It takes a village and God knows I abused that a bit after…” he paused, “After Mary’s death.”

 

“Those were exceptional circumstances,” began Sherlock, every fibre of his being leaning over the table and softly clutching John’s hand although his body never moved an inch, “Anybody would have done the same.”

 

“These are extraordinary circumstances too!” retorted John, marvelling briefly at how anyone had ever believed Sherlock was a psychopath, “You’ve been through a lot these past few-”

 

“Not nearly as much as y-”

 

Jesus, did the man really believe that?

 

“Let me finish,” John frowned, latent aggression briefly surfacing to add a sharp snap to the words, “You’ve been through a lot these past few years, you’re still taking in what happened at Sherrinford, me and Rosie only moved in last month and then your son turns up traumatised. Even for you, that’s a lot.”

 

Sherlock failed to reply. John suspected that Sherlock was either absorbing what John had said, or was ruthlessly disproving John’s statements inside his head. It was impossible to identify which it was simply by looking at him. Despite gradually becoming more open and breaking down the cold, psychopathic traits that he had imitated from his sister – although in true Sherlockian style retaining anything he felt intrinsic or useful – Sherlock was still sometimes very difficult to read. John supposed internally that this was due to the mountainous mound of unspoken feelings and concerns, regrets and hurt that lay between them. Things were improving with time, but there was still some way to go.

 

“Am I doing the right thing?” asked Sherlock, always appearing more vulnerable when seeking advice – likely why he did it so very infrequently.

 

“What?” mused John, “You mean the nightmares?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“You tell me. You’re the one who did all of that research,” began John, trying to soften his tone as he spoke, “What’s the consensus?”

 

“Not particularly useful,” sighed Sherlock, “I’m trying to stop him doing what I did – deleting the true events, creating false memories and metamorphosing into something, someone else.”

 

“We don’t even know if he’s capable of doing that.”

 

“Henry Knight managed it and Lawliet is _clever_ ,” Sherlock shook his hands through his hair violently, “I don’t know what I’m doing, John.”

 

John sighed, attempting a new tack, “Are you trying?”

 

“Of course, but I don’t know if I’m-”

 

“Are you trying your best?”

 

“Well, unless you can give me clear parameters providing an objective defini-”

 

“Sherlock!” snapped John, voice almost a hiss as it filtered through a harsh sigh, “Are you trying your best?”

 

“Well-”

 

John glared over his mug.

 

“Yes,” whined Sherlock, “But-”

 

“No,” cut John, “Listen. You are doing your best. You have done more research on this than most psychology students will have done over their entire course. You’re taking him to see a therapist and you’ve been there for him every minute since he got here.”

 

“Yes, but-”

 

“No!” he cried out, before taking his voice back down in volume, “You are doing a damn slight more for that child than I did for Rosie-”

 

“That was completely different!” whisper-shouted Sherlock, “You can’t compare them.”

 

“Then shut up! You’re trying your best, Sherlock. That’s all anyone can expect of you. And given you’re a genius, I don’t think your best is anything we have to worry about.”

 

Sherlock nodded uneasily. It seemed all too clear that they would be repeating this conversation in the near future, much to John’s dismay. Times like this, he almost missed the old Sherlock, pre-fall Sherlock, the one that would never have dared demonstrate this kind of vulnerability so openly. However, John could admit that this feeling was likely due to his secret feelings of resentment, misplaced though they might be. Of course, in the warm light of morning, John would pin most of his turbulent, ugly feelings on sleep-deprived grumpiness which, given it was two in the morning, would not be an unjustified conclusion to come to.

 

“So, how is he?” asked John conversationally whilst taking another sip of his tea, feeling the need for fortification.

 

“Deeply affected, as one might expect. He was very close to his mother, closer than most I would imagine, certainly closer than I am to my mother-”

 

“Which is saying something,” smirked John.

 

“Quite,” glared Sherlock, his face dropping its vulnerability gradually as he pushed his emotions into the backseat, “He knows objectively that he is safe, but anything he finds reminiscent of the events leading up to the incident seem to shake him. Then, of course, there are the nightmares.”

 

“And have they found who did it? I’m surprised you’re not involved.”

 

“You’ll be even more surprised to hear that Mycroft very much is.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

Sherlock hummed, sipping on the tea.

 

“What?” John grinned, “Legwork and everything?”

 

Sherlock nodded grimly.

 

John whistled appreciatively, before pausing, “Why?”

 

“According to Mycroft,” spat Sherlock as though the words had left a bad taste in his mouth, “I am better off here helping Lawliet. I imagine,” Sherlock lied – he knew for a fact his next words were true, “Mycroft is trying to atone for some perceived failure.”

 

“How so?”

 

“I think,” Sherlock lied again, “He hoped that Lawliet would be some un-traumatised version of myself; certainly an interesting experiment.”

 

John fell silent for a few short moments as he processed the information before nodding enthusiastically with a mouthful of tea to indicate he had – or at the very least believed that he had – understood what was going on. Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have been sceptical, but John was indeed clever and certainly a great deal more perceptive than many gave him credit for. He seemed to have a better grasp of his brother’s motivation than Sherlock did, but that could have been because Sherlock often possessed neither the will nor the interest required to decipher his brother’s mind.

 

“He does seem quite like you.”

 

“I’m rather hoping to prevent that continuing,” conceded Sherlock with the same weak smile that had been haunting his face for years, “I just hope I can succeed.”

 

John was silent, quite unsure how to respond to Sherlock’s words. They were scathingly self-deprecating on multiple levels in multiple ways. For one, it suggested that Sherlock did not think himself suitable, or likely more accurately, worthy of being imitated in any way. Second, it suggested he did not believe himself capable of successfully raising a child so as to prevent it. Shame burned bright in John’s chest as he realised he had been silent in the face of Sherlock’s flailing self-worth. Years ago, John would have violently disagreed, but then again, years ago, he might not have ever been fully exposed to this vulnerability.

 

When it came to solving cases, John had quickly learned to recognise Sherlock’s perceived arrogance for what it was: absolute confidence in his abilities. Sherlock knew exactly what he knew and what he did not, what he was capable of and what he was not. Whilst his behaviour seemed arrogant and reckless at a quick glance, Sherlock was fully aware of his abilities. The only areas where he consistently miscalculated were those dominated by feelings. For example, he had often failed to understand why so many officers at New Scotland Yard resented him – not for his intelligence, but rather for the lack of modesty with which he seemed to deploy it. If there was one trait that rankled a Brit faster than any other, it was arrogance and to an ignorant bystander, Sherlock appeared to have it by the truckload.

 

Now unlearning a lot of the traits he had adopted subconsciously from his sister, Sherlock was being forced to re-evaluate. On a case, he was still magnificent, but recently, his movements had been increments slower. John imagined that Sherlock was still confident in his case-solving abilities, but was struggling to accommodate the new, cleaner, more emotional filter through which he was required to solve them. He was confident at a crime scene when examining a corpse, but more hesitant seconds before approaching a witness than he had been previously. More often than not, he would quickly glance at John, as though for reassurance.

 

Given the events of and directly preceding Sherrinford, it was little wonder that Sherlock’s confidence and self-worth are taken a bit of a tumble. John was in fact surprised that Sherlock had not drowned himself in work. Sherlock had instead opted to take a few cases each month, but nowhere near as many as he was capable of. John had thought his dearest friend would drown himself in work – secure and confident in something he knew so well – but clearly not. Perhaps his confidence had taken such a knock that he no longer felt entirely at home at crime scenes either.

 

“Stop it,” said Sherlock, “I’m fine.”

 

“I don’t think you are.”

 

“Yes, well, that may be,” began Sherlock, “But you’re not either.”

 

Sherlock watched him, as though waiting for a denial.

 

“No, I’m not. Not really,” agreed John, “But we’re getting there, right?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

John smiled.

 

“Are you at the surgery tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, Naveed’s still on holiday,” nodded John, “Do you want me to have a look at his hands before I go?”

 

“Thank you,” smiled Sherlock, “Mrs Hudson’s taking Rosie for a few hours tomorrow.”

 

“Therapy?”

 

“Mycroft found him,” nodded Sherlock, before his face fell into one of the first genuine smiles John had seen throughout the conversation, “With any luck, he won’t be a complete idiot.”

 

John chuckled but was drowned out instantly by low groans that were rapidly rising in pitch to become distressed whines. Sherlock was up and out of the kitchen within seconds, pulling open the door to the room before slipping inside and out of view. John sighed to himself, finishing off the now-cold dregs of tea sitting at the bottom of his mug. He remembered – in the early days of his time with Sherlock – waking suddenly to the sound of violin music. Sweat pouring down his face, cold with dread, but red-hot with panic, his focus would gradually hone in on the melody before he drifted off again.

 

John had, right at the very start, imagined it was a coincidence. After all, he had very much been warned. Looking back now, he could see things differently. Sherlock’s soft, squishy, but vulnerable centre had indeed always been there. From the little interaction John had had with Lawliet, it seemed clear that he too had a soft, squishy, vulnerable centre. It had yet to be seen whether that centre would be free and exposed, or whether it would be partially smothered and suffocated by a cold façade as Sherlock’s had been for so long.

 

“Shush, shush,” whispered Sherlock softly, audible through the door which was slightly ajar, “You’re safe, shush.”

                                                              


End file.
